Chapter 12: Passenger

Morning came in bruises.

The sky hung heavy and sullen above the tech office, clouds pressed low like they were trying to smother something. Across the street, Kettle & Pike—normally a beacon of bitter caffeine and overheard complaints—still hadn't opened. A handful of workers clustered under the narrow awning like soaked birds, muttering into travel mugs and phones.

Lena got there early.

Not because she had work. She always had work. But that wasn't why.

She wanted to see him arrive.

She hadn't slept. Not really. She'd dozed, maybe, in short, restless snaps—her mind stuck in the loop of what she'd seen the night before. That moment, framed in amber light: Eliot against the wall, one cheek blooming red. A bruise forming like ink in water.

And that quiet. That furious, quiet restraint in his posture. It hadn't left her.

The wolf in her hadn't gone quiet either.

It paced behind her ribs. Slow. Alert. A low growl pressed to the back of her breath.

She'd tried to tell herself not to overthink it. That it was none of her business.

But that was a lie. And she didn't like lying to herself unless it was useful.

At 8:05, a black hybrid sedan pulled into the lot.

Her breath slowed.

She knew the car. Had seen it in an old photo—Juliette's, posted over a year ago. Captioned something dumb and domestic.

The man who stepped out wasn't Eliot.

Ronan Callahan.

Juliette's husband.

Trim coat. Tired posture. Something cautious in his expression, even before he opened the passenger side door.

He leaned in.

Said something she couldn't hear.

Whatever it was, it wasn't harsh.

Then Eliot stepped out.

Not limping. Not staggering. Just… careful.

There was something about his movements—about how he adjusted his bag strap, about how he kept his chin slightly tucked—that made her fingers curl.

He looked like someone trying not to draw attention to an injury.

Not quite hiding.

But not offering anything, either.

The bruise wasn't obvious unless you were looking. Lena was looking.

It sat low on his jaw, just where bone met tendon. Not purple yet. Just a smear of dark beneath the skin. He hadn't iced it enough.

He said something to Ronan.

Ronan nodded. Reached out and gave Eliot's shoulder a squeeze. Brief. Steady. The kind of gesture you only give when you've done it before. When you know where the fractures are.

And then—Ronan glanced toward the building. His eyes swept the upper floors.

Lena took a single step back from the window, out of sight. Barely breathing.

When she looked again, Eliot was walking alone toward the entrance.

Ronan sat in the car a moment longer, watching.

Then he drove off.

That moment changed things for her.

Lena had assumed Eliot was alone.

He wasn't.

But it was the way Ronan touched him that stuck with her—the familiarity of it. Like someone who'd stood in this place before. Not pitying. Not performative.

Protective.

That rattled something in her.

Because if Eliot had someone—someone steady, someone present—then why did he look like that?

Why did he still flinch at the sound of raised voices?

Why had no one stopped the man from last night?

And why—why—did he come to work this morning, quiet and pale, like nothing had happened?

Lena sat down at her desk and waited. Watched.

Eliot didn't look better.

He looked functioning. And that was different.

He moved like someone living on backup power. Sat down at his desk, booted his system, typed like he was performing normalcy. No earbuds. No caffeine. No smile.

When their eyes met—because they always did—she saw it.

Embarrassment.

Not fear.

Not shame.

Not anger.

Just that quiet, familiar humiliation that comes from being seen when you don't want to be.

And it made something cold twist in her chest.

He still came in.

Still moved through the morning like his skin wasn't pulled too tight over a bruise. Like the pressure behind his eyes wasn't a threat.

Like it didn't matter.

She passed his desk around eleven.

Paused.

"Need anything?" she asked, low.

He didn't look up. "I'm good. Thanks."

But his voice cracked at the tail end of the sentence. Not dramatically. Just enough to make the air between them shift.

She didn't press.

Didn't reach out.

But she noticed.

And she planned.

The rest of the day moved in slow blinks. Rain started again around noon. People complained about the temperature in the breakroom. Someone brought in leftover cake from a weekend birthday party, and half the office pretended to forget about the calories they were counting.

Eliot didn't eat.

Didn't touch the coffee pot.

Didn't even put on his music.

Lena tried not to stare. Failed.

She watched the way he sat—shoulders hunched just slightly forward, jaw set, fingers tight on the mouse even when he wasn't clicking anything.

He was there.

But he wasn't present.

And it made her angry in ways she didn't have words for.

Because he didn't deserve this. Whatever this was. Whoever had done this to him—whoever had been allowed to keep doing it—

They didn't know what he looked like when he was trying to laugh.

They didn't know how careful he was with his words, like each one might tip someone's balance.

They didn't know how it felt to be looked at by him and realize he wasn't taking anything.

Just seeing.

He hadn't looked at her like that all day.

She told herself that was fine.

She lied again.

At 4:50 PM, he stood. Quiet. Packed up his bag.

No goodbye.

No pause.

Just out the door.

Lena didn't follow.

But her mind did.

Back to that apartment window. Back to the way he'd stood with his head bowed, not defending himself. Just enduring.

Good men broke too.

And even people with strong backs needed someone to lean into when the storm hit too hard.

Ronan had come.

That meant something.

But Lena knew—sometimes even the people who love you can't stop the damage.

Sometimes they don't see it until it's too late.

And sometimes, they do see it—

—and still don't know what to do.

Lena knew.

She wasn't gentle.

But she could be brutal in all the right ways.

And if this went on much longer, if she saw that bruise darken, if Eliot came in again with eyes that looked like yesterday's storm—

She'd stop waiting.

And whoever put that crack in his voice?

They'd learn exactly what kind of thing she was.